


Blow Me A Kiss With Battle-Scarred Hands

by Vali_West



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, No Laura, Pietro is an emotional wreck, Recovery, Sickness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4098796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vali_West/pseuds/Vali_West
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietro recovers from the trauma of the battle - but not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blow Me A Kiss With Battle-Scarred Hands

“Pietro,” Clint murmured, drawing one calloused hand to his lover's cheek. “Honey...”

Pietro's silky skin felt warm beneath Clint's thumb as he slowly massaged gentle oval against his cheekbones. When those eyelashes fluttered, the movement was hindered and reluctant. Eyes the color of turquoise and ivory, fresh from sleep, struggled to focus on Clint's concerned features. The young man was still, with only the heart-breaking sound of his soft yet labored breathing endangering raw silence of the white room.

“Hey,” Clint smiled warmly, his voice lifting into one of praise. “Glad to see those beautiful eyes of yours again.”

Something within Clint had changed in the months past. He had never before been good at the delicate art of complimenting and courting, but all of that tension and unease had recently drifted to naught. Something indeed had happened the restless night that Clint had laid awake, staring at the blank ceiling above him and worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, as he evolved into the truth that he was so terrible and so truly in love with the man who had saved his live during the tragic peril of battle.

The depth of Pietro's exhaustion pulled at Clint's hardened heartstrings, but as the very tips of Pietro's chalky-white lips tugged into a shy, tired, yet genuine smile, Clint's hopes soared.

“Hey, yourself.” Pietro whispered, his voice rough and coarse. His hands slyly slithered up against Clint's body, and lithe fingertips skimmed daintily across the thin shadows of the muscles of Clint's arm.

“Stop that.” Clint chuckled as he clasped his hands with Pietro's and gently drew them downwards.

“You stop looking so worried,” Pietro crooned in lazy jest, his voice thick with sleep and foreign accent and the mild pain that coursed through his chest with each inhale.

“Can't help it.” Clint responded truthfully, settling his hands to Pietro's forehead. He straightened his broad palm and slid his hand forward, smoothing back the thick curls that adorned his Pietro's brow. Pietro's eyelids closed and his slender lips fell open to release a breathless sigh.

“You still feel so warm,” Clint spoke softly, “Why don't we get you to medbay and see if we can't lower that fever?”

“I feel good.” Pietro mumbled as he nuzzled against Clint's palm, seeking further comfort.

“Sure you do,” Clint shook his head fondly, and, much to Pietro's dismay, he carefully withdrew his hand. “Let's get you up.”

Pietro nodded slowly, blinking his eyes as they adjusted briefly. With only the mildest of a grimace, he sat up, and chided quietly at Clint's offered hand.

“I am not glass.”

“I know,” Clint admitted. “But I know you're feeling weak.”

Pietro acquiesced. “A bit.”

“You've been sleeping rough since Sokovia,” Clint reminded him. Pietro opened his mouth to protest, but Clint interrupted him, “and it's okay. It's only human.”

“I wouldn't know.” Pietro's even gaze turned from Clint's. His eyes narrowed to the briefest degree and something deep within Clint burned.

“Do you feel like coming downstairs for something to eat?” Clint offered quietly, placing one hand to Pietro's cheek in an attempt to distract him from his poisonous thought. “The rest of the gang is just about finishing up breakfast.”

Pietro nodded silently, and, this time, accepted Clint's hand as he rose to his feet. His knees, weak and trembling ever so slightly, wobbled from the unfamiliar weight of his own body. His head immediately went light and he struggled not to sit back down.

Clint observed his frail lover up and down as he wrapped a secure arm around his waist and walked beside him to the door. Pietro wore only loose cotton pajama pants with a solid black shirt that was a few sizes too large for him. Swathed in such that differed from his common attire, Pietro looked more akin to a sleep-deprived college student rather than the highly-skilled superhuman he was genetically enhanced to become.

Clint wanted terribly to kiss away the deep dark rings of exhaustion beneath his eyes, to somehow dissolve the scars left on Pietro's chest from the near dozen bullet wounds, to simply _take away_ all of the pain he held in his body.

In another life, Pietro Maximoff may have been just another young adult to the world. He may have moved closer to western Europe for education, and perhaps he and his sister would have been able to attend proper schooling. Perhaps he would have studied psychology or history arts, and he would have had friends to join at pubs after class. Perhaps he would have graduated from college, filled out his first real job application with a trembling hand, attend his first day at work with butterflies in his stomach and a mind ready to learn.

But that's not the life for Quicksilver.

Pietro became a number. A test subject. And when his heart still beat and blood continued to course through his veins after even the most brutal and excruciating of tests, he became a success. A human weapon for Hydra's use. 

Clint had to steady himself. He forced his tense muscles to relax until his teeth stopped grinding, until his nails no longer dug into the palm of his hand. Pietro looked to him hesitantly, with a flash of fear and apprehension behind his eyes.

“Sorry.” Clint took a slow deep breath. He could feel his own heart pound loudly through his gut. Never before had he ever been so quick to anger.

“If it is,” Pietro struggled in his broken English, “hard for you-”

“No, no.” Clint shushed him, carding a hand lovingly through his hair, hoping to unwind knots of unease within Pietro. “No. I just hate seeing you so... so sick.”

“Weak.” Pietro muttered.

“Recovering,” Clint corrected him.

“Broken.” Pietro's voice cracked half an octave.

“Never.” Clint swore. “You were the bravest out there that day, don't you dare tell yourself otherwise. Do you understand me?”

Pietro nodded his head mutely, his eyes cast to the ground in his shame and guilt.

The elevator was swift and silent, and the moment the pair stepped into the common room of the Avenger's facility, the room was filled with a soft and warm and comfortable buzz, alight with life and sound. Natasha was curled up on the plush sofa with a small book in her hand. Her lithe form arched as she looked up to them.

Pietro straightened and leveled his shoulders. Clint knew he refused to feel anything other than equal amongst his fellow subhumans.

Across the way and into the kitchen, Steve was humming an older tune as he appeared to be finishing washing up dishes from his breakfast. Tony sat hunched at the round table, nursing a tall Bloody Mary with his hand pressed over his damp forehead. He offered a crooked grin to Clint and a brief nod to Pietro.

“Sit down,” Clint told him, “What do you want to eat?”

“Something light.” Pietro admitted as he obeyed. He reluctantly took the seat furthest from Tony's corner, as if shying away from the stronger and older man.

“Some toast, then.” Clint agreed. “Strawberry or grape jam?”

Pietro seemed to perk up ever so slightly. “Strawberry.”

As Clint opened the refrigerator, he missed the brief touch of scarlet flushing the air. It wasn't until he heard a breathless, _'Pietro,'_ did he glance over his shoulder.

Wanda stood right beside her brother, and Pietro rose to his feet and embraced her endearingly. Wanda held him for several heartbeats before pulling away and laying two hands upon his cheeks and whispering to him in tones too hushed for Clint to hear. Pietro nodded and spoke back softly in his native language, his eyes soft but his lips tight and drawn.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Wanda murmured ever so quietly, drawing her thumbs over the pale purple beneath Pietro's exhausted eyes. “But you look so much better.”

As Clint took the jar of strawberry jam from the refrigerator and began to prepare him a small breakfast, he couldn't help but feel a tiny spark of jealousy. Pietro and Wanda held no secrets amongst themselves, but to outsiders, it could be near impossible to know what the pair was thinking. He couldn't stop himself from wondering what Pietro told his sister.

Pietro ate slowly and quietly. In the lighting, his bowed head appeared more pale. His cheekbones were a deep contrast to his flushed cheeks, and the shadows beneath his eyes seemed more prominent than ever before. Wanda kept both eyes on Pietro, as if it were her gaze alone that kept him from laying his tired head on the table and slipping entirely from consciousness.

When she finally did pry her sight away from him, it was to turn to Clint. Her eyes were warm and gentle, an expression Clint was not used to seeing on her face. She reached and laid a gentle slender hand over his.

“Thank you,” She said lightly. “This means so much to the both of us, taking care of him like this.”

“Don't say it like that,” Pietro cut in, voice whiny as he squirmed, but Wanda was having none of it.

“That's how it is.” The corner of her lip tugged ever so slightly, and Clint nearly dared to call it a hint of a playful smile. “Don't be a child, Pietro.” 

Pietro grumbled under his breath and Clint's smile grew to a grin. Nothing could lighten Pietro's spirits the way Wanda could.

She kissed Pietro's brow and tucked a few stray locks of hair behind his ear as she continued, “You both be good today.” With one hand, she tugged the shell of Pietro's ear fondly until he huffed and swatted her away. Regardless, he squeezed her hand briefly before she stood and left the room.

Pietro turned to Clint, and he asked hopefully, “When may I join in the training?”

“When your fever stays gone for more than two hours.” Clint remarked.

“So, soon?” Pietro asked brightly.

“We'll let the doctor decide that.”

Pietro finished his breakfast a few moments later, and he licked away the stray crumbs and bits of jam on his fingertips. He stood to place his plate in the sink, and he slowly skimmed a hand across Clint's shoulder before winding his arms gracefully around him entirely, and he rested his head against the crook of Clint's neck.

Clint chuckled and ran a hand through Pietro's hair slowly, scratching ever so lightly at his scalp. “Tired again so soon, kid?”

“Mm,” was all Pietro crooned.

“Let me see,” Clint murmured as he unwound Pietro's arms from him. He followed his wrist to his hands, where he ran his thumb down his palm carefully. Pietro shivered.

Clint stretched as he stood, and he let loose a husky moan of relief as a particularly tense joint cracked pleasantly, sending tingles up his spine. Pietro took his arm with his hand, an act that felt far more intimate than holding hands.

Together, they walked past the kitchen and into the living room, where it appeared Natasha had slipped off into a shallow slumber. Her head leaned on the arm of the couch, the book in her hand dangling from her lap. Clint knew from experience that she was only the smallest foreign sound from snapping into full alertness.

Pietro released Clint's arm to gently take the book from Natasha's lap, moving silently and swiftly as to not disturb her, and he placed it upon the small glass table just a reach away from the couch.

“Did we leave it here from last time?”

“No. I put it back.” Pietro smiled. “I'll get it.”

“No, wait- _walk!_ ”

But it was too late. Pietro disappeared.

Clint didn't even have time to groan before Pietro had returned, bottle in hand and a thrilled smile on his face. His hair settled back evenly around his face once more.

“ _Walk_ , next time.” Clint scolded as he took the bottle from his hand. He sat down heavily at the couch, and Pietro curled up beside him,

“You don't have to be so worried.” Pietro hummed.

“I do, actually.” Clint uncapped the container and Pietro held out one hand for the oil to drizzle upon. With a toss over his shoulder, Clint folded his legs and settled into a familiar activity – massaging Pietro's hands.

Pietro sighed slowly as Clint used both thumbs to spread the lavender-scented oil across his palm, letting them push into his skin to help unwind and relax the tense muscles there. He widened his work area slightly with every pass of his hands, until he reached the edge of Pietro's calloused hand. He then worked back inwards, until his thumbs bumped, then repeated the process.

He worked next on Pietro's fingers. The deep scratches and burns were fading into scars, yet they still made Clint feel sick to his stomach. His Pietro, his darling... his hands were so terribly wounded. They had healed to a point where it was difficult to pinpoint all of them, but to Clint's eye, they were as contrasting as day and night.

Clint worked slower than usual as he rubbed his fingers slowly, taking one individually and massaging upwards and paying special attention to the joints that Pietro so often cracked. He curved the tip of his index finger around the blunt of his nail before trailing downwards and passing to the next finger.

Pietro's eyes fell closed within minutes. Even his breathing seemed to come in slower and steadier under the deep stage of relaxation. His head leaned against Clint's shoulder and his stiff shoulders slowly slumped.

“Tell me a story.”

Pietro's voice was so soft that Clint could have misheard it as a rustle of fine fabric.

Clint thought for a moment, but his hands continued to work. “What story?”

“Tell me how you and Natasha met.” Pietro said softly, his voice barely audible and thick with the accent that poured into his voice.

Clint's throat tightened and he couldn't find the right words. Pietro was still so new to the group, he wasn't expected to know everybody's story. The only reason Clint knew so much about some of the other team members – especially Natasha and even Thor – was because of his earlier ties with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the work he did for the organization.

Clint's hands slowed to a stop, and Pietro's eyes opened at the cease of attention. But even when he looked up hesitantly, Clint didn't say a word.

Clint's ties with Natasha were secretive and kept under the most secure of files within S.H.I.E.L.D. Natasha had proved herself countless of times over – she could be trusted. The only issue was that not everybody always seemed to agree.

“That,” Clint began with great difficulty, and struggled to keep the tension from his voice, “is a story for another time, kid."

Pietro seemed to nod in understanding. “Okay.”

Clint hoped to distract himself. He patted Pietro's hand and said, “Other one.”

His smile returned as Pietro pulled back his hand only to offer him his other one. Clint started slowly, deep in thought as he gingerly traced the lines of Pietro's palm. His fingertip endearingly caressed the deep love line of his hand, smiling softly to himself.

Pietro watched him through hazy eyes, a content look upon his calm face. Clint lifted his hand gently, as if he were truly made of glass, and softly kissed the very tip of Pietro's index finger. He left feather-light kissed to tips of his other fingers as well, following one after the other, worshiping the skin beneath his lips.

Clint traced a line down Pietro's palm once more, a single one that writhed and touched to each edge and tiny scar that adorned his flesh. He planted one final kiss to the very center of his palm.

“I like this,” Pietro breathed, barely a whisper.

“Me too,” Clint murmured.

 “I like you, too.” Pietro tried nervously, foreign words upon his tongue. “I... I-I lo-”

 Clint sealed his mouth with a kiss, slicing off the tip of the word that nearly fell.

 For a man who was trained to conceal emotions and pain and pleasure alike, Pietro absolutely _melted_ against Clint.

Clint held him close to his body, so close that he could feel the rapid pace of Pietro's heart against his own. Pietro fisted a hand into Clint's short hair, as if demanding him to never be released, to never let him be on his own again. Clint's hands delved down to his thighs and he pulled his legs closer, until he could feel Pietro's hip grind against his, and Pietro gasped and pushed closer.

“O-oh,” Pietro whispered breathlessly, and Clint leaned into the warmth of his body as pressed his forehead into the crook of his neck.

The feeling that became over Clint was a hundred times more powerful than the strongest of morphine, and more mind-numbing than the strongest of narcotics It took him several heartbeats to realize that Pietro was murmuring something soft to him, words of his native language, gentle words of endearment that only he could speak.

Clint shut his eyes tightly. How long has it been since he was able to truly enjoy and savor the sensation of another loved person so close to him? How many cold nights had he spent entirely alone in missions, with only the rain and his bow to keep him company? It had been so long, he had nearly entirely forgotten what it felt like to be held.

Perhaps he and Pietro were not so uncommon after all.

He was reluctant to pull away. He cleared his throat anxiously and began in a hoarse, tight voice, “I... should probably get going. I promised to put some of the lads through a training routine this morning.”

“Okay.” Pietro's voice stuttered only briefly. “I'll- I'll go check on Wanda.”

“Medbay,” Clint reminded him. “You need to take your medicine. You almost forgot it last night and I had hell to pay.”

Pietro made a face and it was enough for Clint to grin widely. He truly could be such a child at times. It was endearing.

 _He_ was endearing.

\- - -

Later on that day, Clint found that he had a rather difficult time keeping his mind focused on the exercise routine at hand. He had left Pietro back in his own room with the television on, and he desperately hoped that he was still where he left him an hour ago – curled up in bed wearing one of his sweaters, half awake and dozy from the medication. Even though he had promised he wouldn't push himself while he was away, Pietro had a habit of not taking it easy.

He was a man used to sampling the word at paces thousands of times the norm. And for such a man, it was only understandable that he had a hard time sitting still.

“Agent Barton, sir?”

Clint's mind snapped back into the present. He glanced over his shoulder to see Private Lucas Turner, a fresh recruit. He couldn't have possibly been older than twenty-five, with deep eyes and glossy curls and fair skin.

“Yes, sorry.” He turned towards him and took the paper. “What is it?”

Meanwhile, Pietro was padding downstairs, stifling a large yawn behind his hand. Whatever concoction the doctors had jabbed into the crook of his arm, it always felt like being knocked off his feet and winded. It was vile and made him feel queasy and dizzy.

He walked one foot directly in front of the other, resisting the urge to simply just _run_ , and be back in Clint's safe and cozy room with his glass of water within a heartbeat. But he had promised Clint, just as he had promised the doctors, that he wouldn't use his abilities unless entirely necessary.

Walking was so terribly slow and time-consuming. How was it possible that people did it all the time?

As he took a clear glass from the cabinet and began to fill it with crystal-clear water, a voice from behind him startled him.

“Shouldn't you be in bed?”

He turned on his heels, alarmed, but immediately calmed when he saw that it was only Natasha, watching him.

“Oh.” He said dismissively. “You.”

“Me,” She agreed, looking him up and down with a small frown. “You sure you're fit to be up and walking?”

Pietro nodded mutely, trying not to take too much offense from the innocent question. He knew that it was only from the good of her heart, but still, it felt so degrading when he was considered weaker or not as potent as the rest of the group.

“So,” Natasha smirked, a playful gleam in her eye as she leaned casually against the counter. “What's it like, finally living in the slow lane?”

Pietro hesitated. “What?”

“I mean, what do you think,” She beckoned to around the room, “about all of this?”

Pietro took a long gulp from his water. English was such a complex language.

“It is... different.”

“Different how?” She prompted.

Pietro thought for a moment. “There is more... freedom.”

Natasha leaned her back against the counter. “Back where I was trained, they didn't like us sharing bedrooms. Sharing anything, really. We were raised together, but entirely individually. It kept us strangers to ourselves – relationships made us weak.” Her eyes locked with his. “I have a feeling you know what that's like.”

Pietro was feeling uncomfortable. Of course he understood what that meant. He couldn't make any relationships with the other men and women at Hydra's base. How could he? None would survive. Pietro and Wanda clung to each other through the worst of it, when the new volunteers dropped dead like flies every couple of days. They had only each other in the darkness of their cells, trembling as the screams and howls of agony of the other test subjects rang through the entire facility.

He closed his eyes tightly, his grip on the glass clenching hard.

He could see it all over again. He could see the flashes of the dimming light above, he could see the fear pass trough his sister's eyes and the tremble upon her lip. He could feel the tremors through the earth beneath their bodies, too minor for a normal human to detect.

It was all there, it was all right _there –_ right in front of him-

“Pietro!”

He gasped and his eyes shot open, and his head whipped down to his hand. The glass was shaking in his hand, the binds of its molecular structure bounding and threatening to give away and ultimately shatter the glass. He quickly placed it down on the counter, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as he recovered his breath. Natasha was staring at him, her hand on his arm, a small but stabilizing gesture.

“Pietro,” She began softly, “are you okay?”

He pulled away from her and, unable to form a coherent apology or excuse, he stammered over a pair of loose syllables before he disappeared entirely from the room. Tears burned in his eyes as he ran, with such speed and agility to outrun sound, and he didn't stop, not when he reached the stairs, not when he reached Clint's bedroom, not even when he was hidden beneath the plush blanket on his bed, curled up in warmth, screaming into the fabric and releasing his tears.

He gasped and shuddered, doing all he could to pry his mind from the images flooding his head. His entire body trembled as he tried desperately to calm himself, to take a breath.

He couldn't do this.

He had to be stronger than this.

He _had_ to be.

He was no longer a child, able to simply hide behind his mother's skirts and avoid his troubles by closing his eyes. He was a man, a _soldier..._

He stood slowly, knees shaking, and he quickly wiped away his jagged tears from his flushed cheeks. He couldn't do this – he couldn't leave Wanda alone in this cruel world as her brother broke down at every corner. He had to protect her.

He couldn't let Clint down. Clint was counting on him – _relying_ – on him to get better, to beat this.

Hugging himself with his arms in a measly attempt at comforting himself, even if just a bit, Pietro began to head back downstairs. He walked slowly, even for his pace, feeling his loose curls brush against his brow. He headed back to the kitchen, where Natasha still stood, and he took his glass of water into his hand once more, took a swig, then looked to Natasha, and let time hit him at normal speed in a sudden rush.

Natasha's eyelashes fluttered back open from her blink, not so much as a trace of confusion in her eyes.

She hadn't even noticed he had left.


End file.
